<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>it's a guilty heart (that beats for you) by letherbeseen</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25393393">it's a guilty heart (that beats for you)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/letherbeseen/pseuds/letherbeseen'>letherbeseen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Ready or Not (2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:41:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,837</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25393393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/letherbeseen/pseuds/letherbeseen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace asks: “In another lifetime, all of this — you and me? Would you have done it again? Would you still have saved me?</p><p>He tells her, without hesitation: “Yes.”</p><p>(in which Daniel returns as a ghost and Grace thinks she’s going insane. But ghosts can’t be touched, can they?)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Daniel Le Domas/Grace Le Domas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it's a guilty heart (that beats for you)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>it's a guilty heart </b>
</p><p>
  <b>(that beats for you)</b>
</p><p> </p><ol>

</ol><p>
  <em> Every night, Grace dreams.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Every night, it's always the same: her in-laws begin the thrill of the hunt and Alex betrays her. Sometimes, it's not necessarily in that order.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Every night, Daniel tries to save her and dies for it. Her trembling fingers try to stitch the gunshot wound in his neck back together, but she always fails miserably. He whispers "Go", and she flees with a pained heart. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She doesn't like to remember that the last words that Daniel ever heard were her own.  </em>
</p><p>Thank you.</p><p>
  <em> She always ends up back here, in the dining room at dawn — wearing her blood-drenched tulle and lace, and wielding a knife in her good hand. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The Le Domas' world has come crashing down. Apparently, the curse isn't a load of bullshit after they see Helene explode. Tony tries to pretend he's high and mighty as he hurls empty threats at Mr. Le Bail; Charity practically gets on her knees, Emilie runs out into the hall with her children, and Alex ... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Oh, Alex.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Alex begs for her to stay with him after all of this. As if he hadn't been holding a knife directly above her heart and ready to sacrifice her minutes earlier.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> (She doesn't. How could she? </em>
</p><p>I want a divorce,<em> she tells him.)  </em></p><p>
  <em> One by one, they all combust into a crimson rain of blood, guts and flesh. The mysterious Mr. Le Bail appears in the end and gives her a nod before he vanishes along with the flames from the fireplace. She's always left wondering what it means.  </em>
</p><p>You lived against all the odds stacked against you? </p><p>You have your life. I finally have theirs.</p><p>
  <em> Whatever the case, she doesn't know.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grace walks past the caved-in face of Becky Le Domas, gripping her mother in-law's lighters in hand and pauses to look at Daniel's body still lying untouched in the foyer, the fire and smoke from the curtains rising dangerously. </em>
</p><p><em> It's ironic, </em> she thinks. <em> Alex was always supposed to be the good brother. Instead, it had been </em> Daniel <em> , not Alex, who had risked everything for her — in order to keep her safe.  </em></p><p><em> Another hysterical half-laugh, half-sob rips out her mouth. She whispers a </em> I'm sorry <em> and turns to open the door. It doesn't move. She pauses with uncertainty. Tries again. The door refuses to budge.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Nononono. This is a mistake. She's supposed to be free! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Going somewhere?"  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She whirls around at the sound of the voice. It's Becky standing there — her face still shattered and mangled beyond recognition but the voice (and iconic pulled-back ponytail) is definitely hers. Grace can't forget the sound of the woman's voice who she succeeded in killing. Becky grins — or at least tries to. Behind her stand the rest of the Le Domas' family, all nine of them — minus Daniel, who is missing. Each one has murder in their dead veins and Alex stands behind his mother, directing all of his hatred and fury in his eyes toward her. </em>
</p><p><em> Blood </em> dripsdripdrips <em> to the floor from Becky's broken mouth and Grace gasps shakily in horror, pressing against the door, fumbling for a way out. Why can't she get out?! </em></p><p>
  <em> "Oh, honey," Becky continues, her words slurred. "Did you think we were going to let you leave?" </em>
</p><p><em> Helene steps forward from the lineup, wasting no time in raising her battle axe, shrieking, </em> "You must die!" <em> and swings and Grace opens her mouth to —  </em></p><p>She wakes gasping and sitting upright in her bed. </p><p>Grace is an entanglement of flailing limbs caught in wrapped blankets, her body racked with uncontrollable sobs of anguish and grief. Her blonde hair is plastered to her face and she struggles to breathe, her hands ready to keep her head attached to her neck. Grace searches frantically for the large cut but she can't find it —  she can't find it! — and she waits for the blood to start pouring out. Her heart threatens to burst out of her chest like a jackrabbit and there's screaming — Where's the screaming coming from, stop screaming you need to be quiet or they'll hear, they'll <em>hear</em> and — </p><p>Oh, it's her. <em> She's </em> the one screaming. <strike> Again .</strike></p><p>The shrill, high shrieks pouring out of her mouth (seemingly like second nature now —  <em> ugh </em>) cut off immediately after the realization hits, soon replaced by quick frantic gasps. The walls of the Le Domas' mansion blur into the familiar sight of her bedroom. The knife in her hand is replaced by a butter knife she's tucked under her pillow for her protection. She crumbles once she realizes she's unharmed and safe. </p><p>She's okay. She's <em> alive. </em></p><p>It takes a while but she manages to get her bearings straight again. After checking that her doors and windows are <em> truly </em> locked, Grace sets down the butter knife on her counter. Her shaking fingers reach for a cigarette, flicking the lighter open, only to pause. She can see Daniel outside on her tiny balcony patio; still the same as she's last seen him, saving her till his last breath. The flame burns her thumb and she drops it with a pained hiss. The lighter falls onto the floor with a soft <em> click </em> and Grace is frozen. Then she blinks and he's gone. Figuring that she's just sleep-deprived and it's a side effect of the Benadryl she's taken earlier, she pauses for a moment, waiting for him to show up again before bending to scoop the lighter up when he doesn't.</p><p>"Good going, Grace. Seeing your dead husband's attractive brother is a <em> great </em> way to start off the night. Yippee."</p><p>God, this is <em> never </em> going to end. </p><p>It's nightmare after goddamn nightmare and all she wants to do is scrub the blood from her face until her face turns red and her hands strip into bone and forget. She supposes maybe, just maybe, she should go back to therapy. But she hasn't touched a single cent of the Le Domas' money since the fire and she never, <em> never </em> will. </p><p><em> Donate it to charity for all I care, </em>she says and the lawyer stares at her like she's insane.</p><p>Hell, maybe she is.</p><hr/><p>It first starts when Grace is at work. </p><p>She’s finally managed to gather the courage to integrate herself into society again. She can’t be afraid all her life, Grace knows. So, Grace’s managed to snag a job at the closest diner near her new apartment — not the one that used to be hers and Alex’s. She will <em> never, ever </em>step foot in there again and only grabbed the necessities and when asked what to do with Alex’s things, she told the movers to burn them. </p><p>The owner of Lucille's Diner had been sympathetic to her story (“<em> fucking rich people </em>,” Lucille swears and Grace can't help but give a small chuckle) and now she's a waitress. Grace had practically demanded requested it. </p><p>Her left hand is covered by a fingerless glove for protection, the hole underneath sewn and covered in countless of skin grafts by countless surgeries and she had told them not to make it smooth and pretty and flawless. The pain is still real, still very much <em> raw </em>, but her hand still somehow works … well, minus the two fingers she can't bend and no feeling where the bullet passed in her palm. </p><p>It's a reminder that Grace <strike> Le Domas </strike> is a fucking <em> survivor </em>.</p><p>Here, she is just simply Grace and the horrors of Le Domas' can not reach her here. She'll be damned if it lets her and tells herself not to jump at every clatter and bangs her co-workers make. Her black uniform (she still refuses to wear red or white) has an unceremonious coffee stain splattered near her stomach and she sighs as she runs a wet paper towel over it in a pathetic attempt to get it out.</p><p>She's doing better, she thinks. There are good days where she is able to make small talk with her neighbours and do normal routine things like grocery shopping. There are bad days when she wakes screaming, clutching her chest where the knife would've plunged and sees Alex everywhere. </p><p>(Aside from that, lately, it feels like she's being watched. </p><p>Yip-to-the-fucking-hurray!)</p><p>It starts on a slow Tuesday afternoon, nearly three months since the fire, and her shift is nearly ending and she's wiping down the counter when she hands a regular their order and <em> can the next customer please step up? </em> and …  freezes because then, she sees <em> him </em> . The man standing in front of her <em> looks </em> like Daniel and she can't move because — this can't be happening, this can't be happening, oh God.</p><p>"Daniel?" she asks, his name pushing through her lips before she can stop herself. Daniel doesn't speak. Doesn't speak and just stares. There's something flickering in his eyes and her eyes drop to the hole in his neck, gaping and wide, just the same when she'd left him, dark red splattered down his shirt. </p><p><em> Go </em>, he tells her with his dying breath.</p><p>
  <strike> <em> Hey, are you okay? </em> </strike>
</p><p>She's aware of the tightness of her chest, how her breathing has become harsh and <em> heavy </em> and her head starts to swim. Grace tries to balance herself on the counter and oh God, she needs to — </p><p>
  <strike> <em> Hey, uh, lady? Something's happening with her. </em> </strike>
</p><p><em> Start with what's real, </em>her therapist had once told her. </p><p>Grace fumbles for her glove as she stumbles past a concerned Lucille, only it making it halfway before she slides down behind the counter. Her hand trembles and shakes violently but it's still the same when she'd looked at it this morning and the hole is not gushing red and wide open as she'd feared. She feels the mismatched bumps and uneven skin; not as perfect and whole as it once was. It <em> feels </em> real but she can't be too sure. </p><p>
  <em> Breathe. </em>
</p><p>Grace glances around. The clock on the wall isn't melting numbers and the heaviness in her chest only seems to get larger by the second. Her fingers brush against her clothes: cotton and wool. Real. </p><p><em> Breathe, Grace </em> . She <em> swears </em> Daniel is speaking to her right now. She can practically feel the pressure of his hand on the small of her back, the long faded line across her spine beginning to sting and throb. <em> Breathe. </em></p><p>
  <em> One thousand …  </em>
</p><p>"Grace, honey? Talk to me," Lucille's voice murmurs. Grace distantly registers that she's by her side, helping her up and trying to gently usher her to a nearby empty booth. Her movements are jagged and slow like she's drunk; the harshness of her breathing and her thumping, wild heartbeat is all she hears.</p><p>Grace sees Daniel rounding the corner of her peripheral vision and tells herself not to look. But the blue of his shirt and the green of his unraveled bowtie is all she can see and so she turns her head to look at the wall. She'll smell the alcohol from his breath, the smoke from the fire and feel his blood on her hands again, an apology rising on her lips. </p><p>
  <em> Two thousand …  </em>
</p><p>If he's here, then is Alex? She can't help herself; she turns to look. </p><p>Maybe he'll be there with flowers in his hands and this will all be some fucked-up coma she's emerged from. </p><p>Maybe she'll wake up and Becky will be by her side in the hospital offering motherly words of comfort, and Emilie will be snorting coke not-so-discreetly on the side with bumbling Fitch arriving late as usual with Georgie and Gabe. </p><p>Maybe …</p><p>She blinks and the man standing at the counter she had been staring at is so clearly <em> not </em> Daniel at all.</p><p><em> Breathe, </em> his voice whispers again. She begins to laugh, hysterical, broken and wheezing all at once. Then, Grace places her head in her hands and begins to sob. </p><hr/><p>
  <em> Grace's on the altar again, tied and bound. Tony is at the head, ready to sacrifice her but Daniel comes to the rescue, having slipped laxatives in their blood-chalices and ripping the ropes from her wrists. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Up and at them," he says to her, his hand gently pressing against the small of her back. His other hand grips her right upper arm, whisking them into the foyer, dragging them to safety under the stairs when Tony starts screaming for the rest of the family to stop them. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grace turns to Daniel, ducking at the sound of footsteps racing past — Fitch's or Charity's, she doesn't know. "I knew you'd help me." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He turns his head to meet her eyes. "I didn't." </em>
</p><p><em> She can tell he's wondering why she's put so much faith in him. </em> Why me? <em> Daniel had probably thought that final night.  </em></p><p><em> Truth is, she doesn't know. Maybe it's because she's seen others like him when she's been bounced from foster home to foster home. It's that little glimmer of a soul under the sarcasm and alcohol in his lungs. He's </em> capable <em> of change, just like Alex.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Once upon a time, before Grace had met Daniel, Alex had told her Daniel had a passion for photography when he was a child. He'd been vague to why Daniel had dropped it so suddenly and then succumbed to alcoholism right after. And why — according to Alex — sweet Emilie "who wouldn't hurt a fly" Le Domas, was now an extreme coke-head addict worthy of a mention inside an episode of El Chapo. Hell, Grace wouldn't even put it past the Le Domas to forge connections to the cartel in some fucked-up way, she supposes. </em>
</p><p><em> Now she knows. Like how in the fuck could any sane child cope with any part of this fucked-up family tradition, Hide and Seek pulled or not?  God, even her worse foster home was </em> never <em> like this. </em></p><p>
  <em> Her fingers reach out and wrap around his arm, reigning him back.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Wha —" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Grace quickly slams her hand over his lips, motioning for him to be quiet. Both of them are still as statues, and Grace is distantly aware of how pressed up she is against against his chest. Footsteps flare to life from down the hall, signaling the familiar click-click-click of Charity's heels running into the dining room, not bothering to spare the stairs a single glance. Daniel's breath huffs against her palm, dark eyes unmoving from hers, both of them not nudging a single muscle until Tony and Charity's voices fade away from earshot.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Good. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Fuck those two. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Daniel exhales a quiet sigh of relief as Grace slowly removes her hand. Then he glances back at her.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Why did you save me?" she asks quietly, knowing she's not going to get an actual answer. In truth, she wonders why. But still, it can't hurt to ask. </em>
</p><p><em> She expects for him to say, " </em> All I knew was, at some point, somebody had to burn it all down <em> ," like the last time. Instead, his hand comes up, the back of his knuckles brushing against her cheek and she can't help herself, she leans into the touch. Her eyes open, blue meeting dark brown, the lighting from the lamps flickering on their faces.  </em></p><p>
  <em> "Because I had to," he tells her, adjusting a strand of hair from her dirty face. "Never thought it would be me." </em>
</p><p>Click. </p><p><em> Almost in synchronization, the two whip their heads at the deafening sound to find Charity in front of them. Somehow, she's snuck up on them and no — this is </em> not <em> how it's supposed to go. Grace is supposed to — She's supposed to save him this time! </em></p><p>
  <em> "You really don't care if I die," Charity says, tears streaming down her cheeks, shakily holding her pistol. Then before Daniel can protest, there's a loud bang and Grace flinches when his blood and brain matter splatters on her face and the wall behind them. Daniel's body slumps against hers and Charity turns her pistol onto her. Then Alex's hand is plunging into her chest  —  </em>
</p><p>She doesn't wake screaming this time, a heaving, strangled grunt caught in her throat when she bolts from the bed. Maybe it's a blessing or a curse; maybe it's a sign her nightmares are lessening for now. This dream — memory, <em> whatever </em> — is different and not as heart-stopping and terrifying like the others a thousand times before. Her hands reach for her face, expecting to see Daniel's blood on her fingers when she pulls them away. </p><p>Nothing. </p><p>Movement catches her attention and gooseflesh rises on her skin, sudden cold air chilling her bones. In the moonlight, standing in front of her bathroom door, is Daniel Le Domas in the ghostly noncorporeal fucking flesh. </p><p>"Oh, of fucking course, it's you."</p><p>Okay. It's official, she thinks. She's cracked. This time, she's utterly cracked.</p><p>"Look at me," she giggles involuntarily, a little broken and hysterical. And before she can stop it: "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't save you."</p><p>She <em> swears </em> she can see him give her a small hint of a smile. A long moment passes and the hole in his throat bleeds and trickles out like slow sap when he swallows. </p><p>"You look like shit," he says finally and Grace only stares.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>